"An Imperial Message" by Franz Kafka

An Imperial Message

The emperor, so a parable runs, has sent a message to you, the humble subject, the
insignificant shadow cowering in the remotest distance before the imperial sun; the
Emperor from his deathbed has sent a message to you alone. He has commanded the
messenger to kneel down by the bed, and has whispered the message to him; so much
store did he lay on it that he ordered the messenger to whisper it back into his ear again.
Then by a nod of the head he has confirmed that it is right. Yes, before the assembled
spectators of his death -- all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and on the
spacious and loftily mounting open staircases stand in a ring the great princes of the
Empire -- before all these he has delivered his message. The messenger immediately sets
out on his journey; a powerful, an indefatigable man; now pushing with his right arm, now
with his left, he cleaves a way for himself through the throng; if he encounters resistance
he points to his breast, where the symbol of the sun glitters; the way is made easier for
him than it would be for any other man. But the multitudes are so vast; their numbers have
no end. If he could reach the open fields how fast he would fly, and soon doubtless you
would hear the welcome hammering of his fists on your door. But instead how vainly does
he wear out his strength; still he is only making his way through the chambers of the
innermost palace; never will he get to the end of them; and if he succeeded in that nothing
would be gained; he must next fight his way down the stair; and if he succeeded in that
nothing would be gained; the courts would still have to be crossed; and after the courts the
second outer palace; and once more stairs and courts; and once more another palace;
and so on for thousands of years; and if at last he should burst through the outermost gate
-- but never, never can that happen -- the imperial capital would lie before him, the center
of the world, crammed to bursting with its own sediment. Nobody could fight his way
through here even with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window when
evening falls and dream it to yourself.